


A Whisper Under the Skin

by Giroshane



Series: Gifted [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon Concurrent, Developing Relationship, Gen, It'll be polyam eventually I promise, Multi, Non-Chronological, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Multiple, Superpowers, just not in this particular story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: The universe sang to her. That was how Gaby thought about it. She would ask it for help, and it would sing. It would sing rhythm into her body and sparks down her fingers, and any broken and battered machine that passed through her father's shop would come together under her hands.Illya had always been the fastest, the strongest. There was something just under his skin. It would whisper in the quiet moments before his emotions exploded, and then he’d lose his chance to grasp it. Then one day he paused long enough to listen. The whisper turned into a ringing in his ears, like he was a tuning fork of the universe, and then the room exploded.Napoleon’s quick fingers, his strong memory, his charm, was the stuff of legend. And none of it was from any goddamn Gift.---An AU where some folks are Gifted, some folks are not, and despite that, a Russian and an American still have to team up in the middle of the Cold War to stop some Nazis.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Series: Gifted [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764019
Comments: 33
Kudos: 76





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm resurfacing after over a year not publishing to publish fic in a completely different fandom, leaving (as always) numerous unfinished works in my wake. Such is my lot in life. But this, at least, is finished! And will be updating once a day for the next week. I rewatched TMFU in quarantine and fell in love all over again, and this is the result (or, at least, one of them).

It was common knowledge that extreme stress could trigger the manifestation of a Gift. Napoleon distinctly remembered the old wive’s tale that would circulate his hometown, of a young boy stepping on stage on opening night, and being so accosted by stage fright he vanished right there in the spotlight. He also remembered Sarah Hutchinson from high school, pronounced prom queen, how the excitement literally made her glow. Of course, for Gifted folks, they said, sometimes the stress of birth was enough. Another classmate came to mind, James, who could breathe underwater and had been able to do so for as long as Napoleon had known him.

To develop your Gift in the innocence of childhood was the ideal. You had your family to help you, your community to guide you. Not everyone with a Gift was so lucky.

Military training was extreme, and for some, brutal enough. But even that couldn’t compare to the hell of a battlefield. If Napoleon had to guess, about half of his squad developed Gifts (and he didn’t have to, he knew exactly how many, he just didn’t like to think about it). Very few lived long enough to get the hang of them properly. It was a hell of a thing, to watch one of your men scream at the impact of a bullet, only to vanish, reappearing halfway into enemy territory, and watch him fall to more bullets because he couldn’t figure out how to teleport back. It was a horrifying thing. Napoleon remembered very clearly the pictures of the Giant of D-Day—and then again, who _didn’t_ —the British foot soldier who practically _grew_ out of the ocean, becoming large enough to swipe fighter jets out of the sky.

So many men and women walked away from the war with Gifts. Napoleon walked away with nothing but his life and a cunning knack for dealing antiquities. That suited him just fine. He was skilled enough, he knew, that he could keep up with his Gifted counterparts, to the point that people assumed he was Gifted as well. He used that to his advantage. 

When the CIA caught up with him (out of sheer dumb luck), they were none the wiser for a good long time. It took them almost a full year to figure it out, and for almost a full year he had a Gifted label on his file that he had to fight not to laugh at. It was worth the risk of being shunted to prison, just to see Sanders’s blind, speechless rage when he found out. The CIA would become a laughing stock if it got out that the organization couldn’t even properly interpret the skills of its own. He nearly _did_ get shunted to prison, but the CIA wasn’t that desperate to lose its best agent, Gifted or no.

Napoleon’s quick fingers, his strong memory, his charm, was the stuff of legend. And none of it was from any goddamn Gift.

* * *

The universe sang to her. That was how she thought about it. It first told her the rhythm of herself, her body, a level of harmony so clear she looked like she belonged onstage. 

“Gabriella, you’re a natural,” People would tell her as she danced and danced. _Nature taught me the secret_. She would answer to herself. An innocuous enough talent, not the kind that anyone would think special. Gifted.

Then the universe told her about the machines man made. Of course, part of that was simply the environment she was in, growing up in her foster father’s car shop. She was curious, and as much as she liked breaking a sweat on the dance floor, she liked getting her hands dirty just as well. She wanted to know how the cars worked. She asked the universe. The universe answered her. It sent sparks down her fingertips. She remembered the day her father watched the carburetor come together under her hands and dropped his bottle of beer to shatter on the floor. He had not been proud, or excited. He had been scared. He placed another broken car part in front of her and asked her to do it again. The sparks leapt from her fingertips to the curved metal, the universe telling her where to put each piece with barely any need to actually touch them. With her Gift confirmed, her father had blanched.

“I can help you in the shop now.” She had tried to reassure him, but he had pressed her hands together and looked her in the eye.

“You can, of course you can, but under the skill of these alone.” He squeezed her hands and she frowned.

“But Vater--”

“There are people out there, Gaby. People who will use a Gift like this for their own ends.” He cut her off, voice gravely serious.

Then the Iron Curtain fell, the worst of all her father’s fears confirmed. She quit the ballet, even if it was her only chance to get out. The risk was too great. If anyone realized the universe sang to her the way it did, from her bones to the machines, they would take her. The few Gifted people she knew in their small corner of the city vanished and she knew she had made the right choice. She worked on her cars. Her father died. In the safety of the shop, she began to practice her Gift a little bit more.

In the end, it wasn’t her Gift that brought Alexander Waverly knocking at her door, but her family. It would be slow going, but she would be given an out, and then her life wouldn’t be one of cautious hiding. She recognized the deep-seated irony of the situation when the American spy blundered into her life, asking about her father, her _biological_ father like Waverly had but less subtle, and getting trailed by another operative, forcing her hand too quickly. She rolled back under the car, and asked the universe to help. It sang back to her. The car started. She could only hope that Napoleon hadn’t noticed the level of repairs she had just sped through--or that, if he had, he didn’t go blabbing about it to the CIA.

He never did.

* * *

Illya was the youngest to be accepted to the KGB program. He was the fastest to rise through its ranks. He had much to prove, and the KGB was determined to make sure of that. But the подчеркивая, the Stressing, that was done to everyone. That was the Russian way.

The Stressing wasn’t something one ever enjoyed, but Illya threw himself into it with as much determination as he had thrown himself into everything else. He had to be Gifted. He _had_ to be. His parents were un-Gifted, but that made no difference to him. He had always been the fastest, the strongest. There was something just under his skin, rushing through his veins right alongside but always overshadowed by his rage. It would whisper in the quiet moments before his emotions exploded, and then he’d lose his chance to grasp it. So he went through the Stressing again. And again. While other young men and women manifested their Gifts and moved on--or couldn’t take it anymore and were quietly removed from the program--Illya kept going through the trials. The fighting, the abuse, the torture. The KGB had killed two birds with one stone by rolling its resistance and survival training into the Stressing, but even they had been wary when Illya kept going long after he was advised to stop; they gladly accepted un-Gifted agents as long as they measured up to their Gifted brethren, and Illya had managed at least that. But that wasn’t enough. He kept chasing the whisper.

Eventually he became a part of the Stressing itself. Handlers would throw in as many of the fresh recruits as they thought Illya could take. He would knock them down, one by one, perfect outlets for his fury at the world, his shame. And then, someone (Oleg, Illya always believed), had the clever idea to simply calm him. To stop him at that precipice just before the whisper was drowned out by the blood roaring through his veins. Not control, that was an ideal Illya couldn’t even strive for himself anymore, but a pause, for the briefest of moments. It had taken just one moment, pinned down, having taken a blow to the temple by a recruit with a pipe, blood dripping into his eye, his consciousness swimming, with a voice calling out into the room. 

“сдерживаться, курякин.” _Hold_. _Wait._

There was no stopping his violence when he was at this point, but he could breathe, for just a second. He tapped his finger to the beat of his father’s watch. The whisper didn’t fade. It grew louder. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ It was so close. He could almost reach it. The whisper became a sharp ringing, like hollow metal hitting hollow metal. 

The room exploded. Or, more aptly, the people in the room exploded back, pushed away from him and into the walls of the room. They floated there, and Illya with them. The whisper-ringing prickled under his skin, creating gooseflesh in its wake, and Illya felt like a tuning fork of the universe. He brought gravity crashing back into the room, sending all of his combatants to the floor. They did not get back up because they couldn’t; not until the voice commanded him to stop, and the whisper-ringing eased, and all of his rage (and energy, and consciousness, too) was gone, used up by his Gift. 

“You are powerful, Kuryakin.” Oleg told him after the fact, when he’d woken in the medical wing hours later, cotton in his nose and head pounding. The man that would eventually become his handler in the field had been observing him that day, and seemed to show a glimmer of pride. “You will serve the motherland well.”

Illya Kuryakin wore the scar on his temple like a badge of honor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> сдерживаться, курякин = Hold back, Kuryakin.
> 
> Also, every chapter from here on out is one POV at a time. It jumps back and forth in time a bit, but everything is a scene from the movie so it shouldn't be too disconcerting!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)


	2. Rome Part I: Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya had to fight the urge to grab Cowboy by his throat, change the density of his body, and snap him in half.

Behind the Colosseum, Illya seethed with rage. He tapped his thigh, calling the earth to settle around him, holding him in place. Keeping him from killing those two goons in cold blood. Gaby was still holding onto him, trying to calm him. As his rage poured into his Gift instead of the night air, he realized she had put herself between him and a surefire bullet. She had no idea he could stop it if he wanted to, _really_ wanted to, and she had used herself as a shield. There was something about the act that shook him more than his anger did, but then Solo was sauntering up and insulting him.

“Not very good at this whole subtlety thing, are you?”

Illya had to fight the urge to grab Cowboy by his throat, change the density of his body, and snap him in half.

“That man stole my father’s watch.” He growled. _That watch was the last piece of my family,_ he wanted to roar.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a Russian architect?” Solo asked. _Can’t you hold your cover together over a watch, like it means nothing, when it’s everything,_ is what Illya heard.

“Да, but a Russian architect would fight. Russian agent would have killed them both. So it’s no trouble unless you continue to question my actions.” He hissed.

“Aw, so you actually thought this through?” Solo tilted his head patronizingly.

“Would you like to finish what we started?” 

_A little added speed, added strength_ , Solo had taunted the first time they’d spoken. The KGB’s misdirection to cover the power of his true Gift. Illya would show him what just a little added speed and strength could _really_ do.

“ _Don’t!_ ”

Instead, Gaby interrupted them, bringing his temper to a stopgap.

“You two are supposed to be looking after me, so why am I playing mother, ah?” She said coolly, no respect in her gaze for either of them. “Either you start to look like you know what you’re doing, or I’m out of here.”

That had seemed to cow both men enough; Illya followed behind her, not saying another word to the American. But the knowledge that Solo would feel, for a few hours, like he’d gained several pounds, and would be winded by the time he got back to the hotel, gave him some level of satisfaction. It was worth the headache that radiated from his temple as a result.

He tried to play chess as he waited for the whisper-ringing to be less painful ringing in his eardrums and more its usual whisper. The emphasis was on “ _tried”_. Gaby Teller kept distracting him (except he wouldn’t admit it, because what kind of top KGB agent would he be if he did). She was fierce, and he liked that. She was annoying, he countered, as he played the opposite side. She was clever. But she was stubborn. She was gorgeous. Certainly not Illya’s type. Certainly. Music blasted through their room and Illya realized he was playing a losing game against himself. He grumbled and pushed the chess board aside, intending to tell the bratty little chop shop girl from East Berlin to quiet down.

“I am going to bed, please turn this off.”

She danced in his way, blocking him from the radio. She took his hands. They dwarfed hers, but that didn’t stop her. She had to be drunk, Illya concluded as she swayed them from side to side and clapped his hands together. Then she slapped his hand to his face. She backed off immediately, and he glared at her--more angry at himself for letting her catch him off guard than anything else. She apologized, though, and she eagerly wanted to dance, even if he’d admitted he couldn’t, so he let her take his hands again.

And she slapped him again. The nerve!

“You’re not in East German chop shop anymore.” 

“Still no drink?” She fired back.

“Don’t you make me bend you over my knee.” He bit out, before his brain could filter his fool mouth. He wanted to swallow those words back down, but Gaby didn’t seem insulted by the insinuation, only incensed. She was definitely far too drunk. She took off her sunglasses and tossed them to the side.

“I see.” She said simply. “So you don’t want to dance. But you do want to wrestle.”

Illya felt heat climb up his cheeks. This was getting out of hand.

“No, I did not say that--”

And then she tackled him. An honest, violent, tackle. _She was being literal_ , He thought as she rolled him over the couch, so surprised he could do nothing but let her. Then instinct kicked in and he started to fight back.

He could have used his Gift to end the fight quickly, making himself too heavy to move or her too light to fight, but there was...an excitement to this. A rush. Gaby was small, but she knew that and made up for it in agility. She had to be scarily attuned to her own body even drunk, to be able to wiggle out of (and in some cases, even _overthrow_ ) some of his judo moves like she did. He was still twice her size and far stronger, and he could have ended the fight at any moment he chose to, but he found himself swept away by the adrenaline, and the odd pleasure in fighting on equal footing with no actual intention to harm. He let her choose where to end it, and she ended it straddling his chest and holding his shoulders down. He had his hands on her forearms, ready to throw her off if need be. But she paused. They were both panting. His heart pounded in his chest as her eyelids fluttered, her lips parted. She sank towards him. She really was a gorgeous woman. He really was a terrible KGB agent. He held his breath.

And then she collapsed on top of him with a soft snore. She really was drunk. He sighed, and resigned himself to carrying her to bed and tucking her in. She looked much softer, much kinder when she was asleep. 

“Goodnight, little chop shop girl.”

His heart skipped a beat when her hand caught in his. But she was still very much asleep, and he was still very much a spy. He let her go.

It was probably for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I had to write Illya and his Gift, I ended up muttering "gravitational manipulation" in a bad russian accent to myself and giggling. 10/10 recommend.


	3. Rome Part I: Napoleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon felt as though the universe was pressing in on them suddenly, like pressure on coal to create a diamond. He knew the battlefield he was creating was nowhere near that beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We jump a little bit back in time, before leaping forward once again.

Napoleon watched Sanders and Oleg stand and shake hands. He watched as all the other operatives at the cafe, who had been there before they’d arrived but had been no less conspicuous, stood and left with them.

Truth to tell, he felt _sore_. Both from the Russian throwing him through several bathroom stalls _and_ from the fact that he was now being partnered with him. He didn’t necessarily have a vendetta against every comrade from the motherland; Russia would be fine and all if it just kept to its damn self (and America to itself, but beggars couldn’t be choosers). Hell, he could see some points to communism, if only because he’d seen capitalism at its worst during his thieving days. But it was just his luck to be paired with the only specific Russian operative he _did_ have a vendetta against. Not a huge one, but still enough of one to _not_ want to work with him.

Illya Kuryakin had looked calm and collected the entire time their handlers explained the mission. Calm, but certainly not happy. That made the two of them, at least.

“Obviously I was briefed about you.” Kuryakin spoke first. _Ah_ , Napoleon thought as he looked out over the lake. _Great_. He couldn’t exactly fault the Russian for that though, as he’d gotten his hands on Kuryakin’s files himself; pot, meet kettle.

“Your corrupt and criminal background,” Kuryakin continued, “until you were caught by the CIA and blackmailed into working for them. But, what interests me, given your profile…”

Napoleon looked over at the Russian, who now had his steely, ice blue eyes fixed on him. He could see the insult coming from miles away; Kuryakin had no intentions of being friendly for this mission, apparently. 

“...is what would motivate you to become the CIA’s most effective agent? At first, I assumed it was a Gift of some kind, giving you advantage. But your files...they do not say. Gifted, unGifted, CIA keeps that private.”

Right. When the CIA had figured out he was un-Gifted, in lieu of changing the label and making themselves look stupid for not figuring it out, they removed it altogether. Napoleon didn’t quite mind; it allowed enemy agents to overestimate him or underestimate him in turns, which gave him the advantage either way. 

“Maybe because your Gift is so special they want to keep it to themselves. Maybe because they don’t want to admit their best agent is unGifted--or maybe you are so effective because you are desperate to prove yourself without one. You want to know what I concluded, in the end?”

Napoleon didn’t dignify that with an answer. As if he’d had anything to _prove_ to the CIA! Mr. Kuryakin was projecting. Still, he felt himself begin to bristle.

“I concluded it must be to counteract the humiliation of knowing your balls are at the end of a very long leash, held by a very short man.”

He didn’t expect the way Kuryakin phrased his situation to get under his skin the way it did, but he felt his jaw click. Maybe it was the way Sanders had bit his head off last night; it hadn’t been the first time he’d tugged at his so-called _leash_ , but Sanders didn’t usually dangle the rest of his sentence over his head so brutally. It always managed to rub him the wrong way, it made the itch to be free and the itch to let his hands wander grow stronger. He felt that itch now, but Kuryakin wasn’t close enough to lift anything off of him. If the Red Peril here wanted to get off on the wrong foot though, well, two could play at that game.

“I’m sure you understand humiliation, better than most.” He said, keeping tight control of his irritation.

“Really?” Kuryakin crossed his arms. “How so?”

“Well, after your performance last night I thought I should read up on you.” Napoleon said, mouth ticking up at the side. “Rather a sad story, what with your dad being a big pal of Stalin’s and a top government official with all the perks and privileges, right up until he was caught embezzling party funds. How old _were_ you when he was sent to the Gulag? Ten? Eleven years old?”

Kuryakin stiffened. What a raw, open nerve. Napoleon glanced down and noticed the man’s tapping finger. Well, it wasn’t on his file, but Napoleon knew a tic when he saw one.

“Was that when the psychotic episodes started? You did, however, rise above it. Special forces. KGB. The youngest man to join, in fact, and their best within three years.” The insult was coming, Kuryakin knew, and Napoleon relished in that fact. “I don’t know a lot about, what was it, the Stressing? The KGB’s rigorous process to try and induce Gift manifestation. Barbaric practice, if you ask me.”

That part, at least, was honest. Having walked away from a war where so many got their Gifts in the worst of ways, and to see a government forcibly subject people to that kind of horror just on the off chance of gaining a little perk? Napoleon _did_ find it barbaric. Even America wasn’t that cruel. He continued on, only letting the barest hint of disdain slip into his tone. Just enough to piss Kuryakin off more.

“And yet you pushed through it, multiple times. You hold a record for it, if memory serves. All for a little bit of added speed, added strength--impressive, don’t get me wrong, but I _do_ wonder if it was your father’s shame that gave you such drive. Or…was it your mother’s reputation?”

This was going well below the belt, but Napoleon felt that if Kuryakin was going to try and bully him, he should know that Napoleon would be able to dish it back evenly, if not worse. Let it be a lesson. The man touted the sickle and hammer, he had to expect them to be brought upon himself now and again.

Napoleon felt as though the universe was pressing in on them suddenly, like pressure on coal to create a diamond. He knew the battlefield he was creating was nowhere near that beautiful.

“I understand that she was...extremely _popular_ amongst your father’s friends, after he was shipped off to Siberia.”

The Red Peril shot to his feet, and Napoleon had the wise instinct to save his teacup before the Russian flipped the entire table. He stared up at Kuryakin, shamelessly triumphant. He’d made Kuryakin crack first. And the Russian couldn’t do anything about it, because they were partners now. What a brilliant, brutal catch-22 for the towering giant.

Kuryakin said nothing, merely hunched his shoulders and stormed away. The pressure surrounding them left with him, and Napoleon sighed. He wondered how quickly the KGB agent would make an enemy out of poor Gaby, if he was this good at making one out of Napoleon.

This was going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the cafe scene; Illya and Napoleon are such absolute dicks to each other :,D
> 
> Add the additional lens of Gifts and it doesn't much improve. 
> 
> (Don't worry, after this chapter you start seeing some properly non-movie/expanded content, I simply felt this was the best scene to include in the overall structure of how this fic works, with alternating POVs and all)


	4. Rome Part I: Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His original plan had been to float up and over the fence once he’d knocked out the lights--which was the plan that actually would leave no mess--but he wasn’t about to show off the extent of his Gift to an American operative, and he wasn’t about to manipulate Solo’s weight and help him over as well. So he watched as Solo...pulled out a pair of wire cutters?

Illya hadn’t expected to see Solo at the satellite factory, but he couldn’t say he was surprised either. Damn Cowboy had to put his sticky fingers in everything. 

“Is this what you call sleeping on it?”

“I suppose you’re responsible for the lights.” Solo said it like a statement, not a question.

“You’re welcome.”

He got out his tools to keep up appearances as Solo crouched beside him. 

“The thing is... I work better alone.”

Illya would laugh if he cared. The American could gladly fuck off. 

“I work better alone too.” He said.

“I’m not leaving.” Solo’s expression dared him to challenge that. Illya saw no point to taking the bait. He hated working with Solo, but not enough so to allow the man to cause chaos and jeopardize the mission. If they stuck together, at least he could keep an eye on the troublesome Cowboy.

“We have approximately 10 minutes before the power comes back on. Want to sit around and talk about it or--”

“Okay.” Solo cut him off obnoxiously. “I’ll let you tag along. But it’s in and out, no mess, so nobody knows we’ve been here. And we both forget about it in the morning.”

Illya could have rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

His original plan had been to float up and over the fence once he’d knocked out the lights--which was the plan that actually _would_ leave no mess--but he wasn’t about to show off the extent of his Gift to an American operative, and he wasn’t about to manipulate Solo’s weight and help him over as well. So he watched as Solo...pulled out a pair of wire cutters?

“What is that?”

“Super-hardened boron sharpened with a CO2 laser.”

Illya hummed, again trying not to laugh. At least he’d brought his tools for backup. When the whirring of the little device caught Solo’s attention, Illya said simply: “CO2 laser.”

Illya felt a glimmer of pride at getting one up over the American, but quickly lost it when they approached the doors. Illya had realized the top lock was the more complicated one, and sank to his knees without making a big deal of it to the other spy...but then the bottom lock started giving him trouble too. 

“Problem?”

If it’d just been him, he would have simply floated the door in its frame, making the lock easier to manipulate. But again, he didn’t want to show his cards.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Solo asked.

“Yes. Be quiet.” Illya hissed, trying to listen to the tumblers of the lock clicking, but even he could hear the sounds of the guards approaching. _Блядь._

“Just let me do it.” Solo nudged him with his thigh, and Illya begrudgingly moved out of the way and let the America thief do what he was so good at. He unlocked the door in seconds.

Illya was usually good at letting stabs at his pride like this roll off his back, but he really didn’t need Cowboy’s added “Loving your work, Peril.” Solo didn’t acknowledge the quiet curse Illya threw at his back.

They split up within the facility, scanning everything they could for the taint of radiation. Illya scowled when he found nothing; he knew the American was going to lord it over him when they rendezvoused on the gantry. But Napoleon had the same bewildered, frustrated look on his face that Illya did when they met up. The factory was totally clear.

Then a guard came along. Illya stepped back into the shadows. Solo caught on seconds later, and of course wedged himself just behind Illya for cover. Bastard.

But then the guard was wearing his father’s watch. The whisper in his veins began to ring. He didn’t even hear Solo’s warning as he stepped out into the open. He would not blow the mission, so Solo did not have to worry. His Gift hung at his fingertips. 

He matched his stance to the guard’s as the man opened his locker. He held his hands out. He swung without hitting the guard once (line up with the pulse). Twice (match the palm of the hand with the arch of the lesser occipital nerve). He hit the guard, letting a little of his Gift pass along with the strike. The guard was out like a light, but did not fall. 

Illya hurriedly checked the watch for damage--

It wasn’t his father’s watch. He snarled at himself internally for the mistake. It was dark, he tried to rationalize to himself. _Stupid._

“ _Why?_ ” Solo asked, stepping out of the shadows to join him. 

“I thought that was my father’s watch.” Illya huffed. “Make mistake.” 

“And, uh, what exactly did you do to him?” Came the inevitable follow-up. Illya smirked.

“At KGB, we call it 'The Kiss'. It takes years to master.” Illya didn’t elaborate that it’d only taken him months, using his Gift to help him cheat just a tad when it came to ensuring the victim stayed upright. He rifled through a second locker, finding another Geiger counter. Surprise, surprise. “Although he’s standing upright he’s completely unconscious. He’ll be like this for twenty minutes.” He gave Solo a warning look. “Can’t touch.”

And then, their luck, the power came back on. At the very least, it gave them a good look at the radiation suit in the guard’s locker. And the hidden button next to it. They wouldn’t have found it without Illya taking out the guard, so you know what? Cowboy could thank him for that too.

“We wouldn’t have found that without my father’s watch.” Illya pointed to the secret entrance once it had opened. The American didn’t say a word. That is, until they came upon the massive vault. Then he sighed, nigh on _dreamily_. 

“Want to have a go?” He asked, so clearly only as a formality. Illya tried not to roll his eyes.

“Be my guest.” He said, letting the thief have his chance to shine.

Of course, then he made Illya his little...what was that American sport? The one that was the absolute height of capitalist excess--right, golf. His little golf caddy, holding his things and opening his toolkit for him. And then Solo began to expound about the safe, clearly bragging. Illya would be pissed, if he didn’t know that he wouldn’t have been able to open it without Solo’s help. Still, he felt a little vindicated when the alarms started to blare, even if it meant they were in deep shit.

“Loving _your_ work, Cowboy.”

Solo checked the near-empty vault while Illya stood watch, and then they booked it out of there. Guards were on their tail in an instant, and the two spies found themselves dodging many, _many_ bullets, with scant opportunities to return fire. The guards managed to herd them to an upper level.

“Does this mean anything to you?” Solo showed him a centrifuge as they took cover behind a set of lockers.

“It’s part of centrifuge for refining uranium!” Illya yelled back over the roar of gunfire. He felt a bullet pass a bit too close to his shoulder. “I am not staying here!”

“Where are you gonna go?”

Illya glanced over Solo’s shoulder, eyeing the bay of windows and the water beyond.

“Swimming.”

He abandoned his hat (he’d lose it anyway, and he had a few more like it stowed in his luggage), shot out the windows, and dived, pulling his Gift around him like a cocoon. 

Still, landing on coarse, uneven rope hurt.

Illya threw himself into the boat and began hotwiring it. He heard a loud _thud_ and glanced over his shoulder. Solo had followed his lead, and was now wheezing from the impact. Illya briefly spared a thought towards sympathy; would he have extended his Gift to the American to ease his fall, if he’d had the chance? Well, no, likely not.

Solo barely jumped into the boat in time.

They sped off, Illya quickly finding one of the exits and heading towards it. But the little speed boat wasn’t fast enough--the walls closed. He twisted the boat around and tried to find another door. They very well couldn’t sneak back onto the compound and back the way they came.

“We’ve got three exits and two of them are closed!” Illya tried to navigate the boat chasing them into a feign, hoping to crash it.

“I would recommend turning before you hit that wall!” Solo called out. Illya grumbled to himself, and it was lost to the roaring wind.

“The last thing I need is _your_ help!” Illya snarled. The feign wasn’t perfect, the security tugboat deftly maneuvered around the boat Illya had tried to run them into, and it had delayed their approach to the last set of bay doors.

“You’re not gonna make it!” Solo yelled.

“Just shut up, and watch me work.” Illya called on his Gift, the ringing drowning out even the sound of the boat, and he poured it into the speedy little thing. It skipped over the water, engines propelling it that much faster. Still, it wasn’t fast enough! Damn! Illya swerved out of the way, the speed boat practically gaining air at the force of it. The ringing in his ears mingled with the sound of gunfire and his head began to pound. He just had to get them out of this mess. 

“Hold on, Cowboy!” He called out. He had heard a thunk (just barely over the din) and imagined the American was simply too busy holding on for dear life to backseat drive. The speedboat was fast like this, but it was much more unruly. And already, he could feel weight returning to the hull. He hadn’t had the focus or the time to embed his Gift properly, and now the boat was slowing down under its own weight. He miscalculated the rate of change and felt more than heard the bullets spraying the back of the boat. A sloppy move. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Solo--

Napoleon was gone. 

Well. _Fuck_.

Had he been shot? He hadn’t heard Napoleon cry out, and he hadn’t seen a splash of any kind, but those bullet holes were right where Cowboy had been clinging to the boat. At worst, the spy was injured, and if he got captured, they were screwed. At best, he was already dead, and based on what Illya knew of the man’s cover, it could easily be explained away as an overzealous thief making a wrong move.

It didn’t sit right with him that that was the best case scenario.

Illya kept looking for a way out, evading the security tugboat and its godforsaken _gatling_ _gun_ , but he also began scanning the water for a godforsaken body. If Napoleon was still conscious, there’d be a chance to drag him out before they both got killed or captured. Illya began to regret not affecting the man’s gravity earlier--if he had, the American, who was likely unconscious, would be floating on the surface and easy for him to spot. He wasn’t usually one for feeling regret, but Solo _had_ helped him get into the building, and into the vault (though he was the one who didn’t deactivate the _alarms_ ). 

First Gaby, now Solo? _God_ what sort of soft was he becoming, to feel worry for an American!

And then he made another sloppy move.

This time the bullets pierced the engine, and the explosion ripped the boat in half. The nose shot up, Illya was forced back, his head snapping hard against wood and metal as he tumbled into the water, and into darkness.

He tried to stay conscious, but he couldn’t breathe. The ringing echoed painfully in his ears. He couldn’t even make himself float. First Solo, now himself. They were both terrible spies, mockeries of their respective countries. Reality slipped away.

And came back with two harsh blows to his chest, forcing the water out of his lungs and stomach. He coughed, and nearly swallowed water right back in, and would have struggled had he not felt a hand at his throat. 

“Keep quiet.”

He didn’t quite recognize the voice at first, and began to struggle anyways, until he realized whoever was holding him was supporting him in the water, the hand on his throat keeping his mouth above the waves so he could breathe.

“Follow me.” 

Oh. It was Solo.

He was alive.

Good.

He was rescuing Illya.

Also good?

It was a fight to keep his thoughts in order--and the ringing in his ears hadn't eased a bit, which made it all worse--but he managed to swim blindly after Napoleon in the water, gracing his hand along the man’s pant leg to make sure he didn’t lose track of him. Napoleon led them to a ladder and quickly climbed up it, Illya following after.

“Doing okay, Peril?” Napoleon asked, even as he hurried them both behind a stack of supply crates to hide.

“You’re--you’re not--shot?” Illya managed around coughs. Napoleon frowned at him.

“No, I hit the water first. You threw me off when you swerved the boat you damn speed demon.” He said. He beckoned for Illya to follow after him, weaving around supply crates and back towards the other side of the facility. Security seemed to be calming down, since the guards likely believed they were dead. Illya was certain now that Napoleon was Gifted, he had to be, to survive surefire gunshot wounds. He just couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. At the locks he’d thought it was some kind of adaptable puzzle-solving skill. Now he thought it was something to do with sheer dumb luck. 

“You’re welcome, by the way. I could have left you.” Napoleon threw over his shoulder. Illya said the first thing that came to mind.

“Then why didn’t you?”

Because it would have jeopardized the mission, even more so than if Napoleon had been captured, since Illya was tied to Gaby, and she was their in in the first place. That was the obvious answer.

“Ah, drinking wine alone sometimes just, makes you _depressed_.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“...Что?” He asked, dumbfounded.

“Don’t worry about it.” Solo shook his head as he led Illya to a little yellow vespa--the same one he’d approached Illya and Gaby at the Steps with. He climbed aboard and jerked his head to the seat behind him. “Don’t worry, I won’t make any wild turns and throw _you_ off.”

Illya ignored the jab as he sat behind Napoleon. There was nothing to really hold onto but the man’s waist.

“We have to move fast, though. They’ll be notifying the Vinciguerras.” He grumbled as he fisted his hands into Cowboy’s jacket.

“Well, let’s just hope Victoria doesn’t assume the worst of Mr. Deveny.” Napoleon said. He squirmed in Illya’s hold. “Gentle there. I don’t normally mind bruises on my hips, but usually it’s due to a different context.”

Illya was very lucky Napoleon couldn’t see him blush. 

“Just drive, Cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Блядь = Damn
> 
> Что? = What?
> 
> Illya is built like a brick shithouse and floating in the middle of it is a very soft, exasperated heart.
> 
> (Also, don't worry, Gaby's coming along soon ;) )


	5. Rome Part II: Gaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had done it. That meant she could do it again. She had a lot of training to do when she got out of this.
> 
> If she got out of this.

The problem with training your abilities on cars and really only cars was that when it came to the smaller things, there was trouble. The problem with only using your Gift to fix was that it was hard to use it to break. Gaby had focused on the lock to her cell as soon as she’d been thrown into it, but she couldn’t hold onto it without arousing suspicion. The problem with letting the universe sing through your hands till they sparked was that you didn’t know how to throw that spark across a room. That didn’t stop her from trying.

She had put herself between Illya and a gun not two days before, planning to dismantle said gun from several feet away without ever having done it before. Mostly it had been out of desperation for the sake of the mission (though it’d be playing some cards she’d have rather kept close to the chest), but also because the last thing she wanted to see was Illya shot due to his own lack of control. If she had resolved to do it then, she could resolve to do it now. She glared at the lock like her life depended on it (because, to be fair, it did). She asked the universe to help. It sang, it sparked, it would help if she could just get _closer_ , if she could just get her hands on it and become as attuned with it as with her own body.

She began to pace her cell, to ease her stress and get her closer to the lock. The universe sang, and this time she turned her full attention to it, taking the time to listen to it carefully instead of simply channeling it. Soon she understood enough that she felt the lock would fall to pieces as soon as she touched it. She braced herself. She was ready.

And then Alexander Vinciguerra had shown up and dragged her out. He didn’t notice as she vainly graced her fingers against the lock as she passed it. It made no difference now, but it still made her heart soar to hear the internal mechanisms of the lock fall to pieces. She had done it. That meant she could do it again. She had a lot of training to do when she got out of this.

If she got out of this.

“Where’s my father?” She gritted out as Alexander man-handled her down the steps to the garage. One of the warheads was loaded into a jeep, and that’s what he shoved her towards. The warheads were done. She and her father should be free. She half-expected Alexander’s answer.

“ _You’ll see him soon enough_.” He snarled. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what he meant. But she didn’t have time to grieve (she wasn’t sure she even wanted to, but she could figure it out later). For now, she had to survive.

It looked as though Alexander intended to use her as a hostage, which bought her precious time as they barrelled away from the Vinciguerra's fortress. She focused on the car under her hands, the mechanics hidden under steel and leather. She knew cars. Of course, her luck, not this make, but she felt the spark at her fingertips and tried to harness it. The universe sang but it was difficult to hear over the roar of the engine and the turbulence of the rough terrain.

A second engine joined the din, behind them. She glanced out the back of the car. It was some kind of buggy. She could see the shock of black hair. Napoleon. If she could get the jeep to break down, Napoleon would be able to overtake them. She turned her attention back to the car.

 _Come on_ , she thought to herself. _Help me_.

She could feel the engine, she was just starting to get a grip on it when Alexander drove them into a fucking lake, breaking her concentration as water quickly rose up to her neck, her chin. She glared at him and hoped he felt every iota of her hatred. _Bastard man. Nazi shit. I’ll kill you myself if I get the chance_.

They resurfaced from the lake and she redoubled her efforts on the car. She just had to focus. If she could just get the engine to stall, even for a few seconds, it would allow Napoleon to catch up. 

Then a motorcycle burst from the trees, breaking her concentration, _again_. The motorcycle landed in front of them but pulled to the side, and she saw a shock of blonde hair. Her troublesome Russian (when had she started thinking of him as _hers_? When he let her knock him to the floor and gave her a new ring the next day, _god_ she’d gone soft, but she'd also never met anyone quite like Illya). She heard the pop of the tire more than saw him shoot it. Alexander swerved the car, and her heartbeat ratcheted up into her throat because she couldn’t stop it. Her Gift wasn’t strong enough. The universe was singing but she couldn’t understand it fast enough.

“ _ILLYA_!” She shrieked, watching as motorcycle and rider were forced off the road and sent flying through the air. She tried to see where he’d fallen, where his body lay, because panic and horror told her he was dead. But then the buggy roared beside them and she locked eyes with Napoleon.

 _Hold on_. He mouthed to her. That she could do.

And then her world was spinning. Her vision swam and she squeezed her eyes shut against it. The car began to shatter around them, but she held on and forced its chassis, at least, to stay together. Sparks danced in her clenched fists until her head snapped back against the seat, and she fell out of touch with everything.

The world went in and out. Glass, all around her. Pain. Rain. Banging, banging, a draft. Napoleon. Him wrenching the bar she was handcuffed to straight out of the car (and she thought Illya was the strong one--then again, Solo had held her weight across a minefield at the start of all this, ages ago). Him pulling her out of the car rather gracelessly (he didn’t know it wouldn’t explode like she did). Holding her, brushing careful hands along her shoulder where it burned. She blinked. She saw the looming shadow of Alexander. She tried to get her voice to work. Napoleon must have seen the look in her eyes because he turned, but too late. 

“ _SOLO_!” She screamed, adrenaline finally bringing her back to her senses. She watched Alexander hit the gun out of Napoleon’s hands with a tire iron, then hit the American again, and again. She could have gone for the gun. She should have gone for the gun. But she didn’t know if Napoleon could take another hit and in adrenaline-fueled fear and rage she decided she couldn’t risk it. Alexander couldn’t take him away from her too. She launched herself at him, trying to knock him over, trying to give Napoleon a chance. But she was dizzy, everything hurt, the melody of her body out of joint. Alexander flipped her into the dirt, and the adrenaline abandoned her just like that.

She heard the click of a gun, but gunfire never came. She heard fighting, the sound of something heavy hitting something soft. She tried to move, she wanted to help, but her limbs only trembled. Silence. Voices. “Peril”?

And then Illya was there, pulling her into his arms, gentle and worried and alive.

“It’s okay.” He smiled down at her, and it was a real one, a relieved one. She tried to say his name but all she could manage was her own weak smile. 

The boys were alive. They were all alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaby: I've only had these spies for like, four days but if anything happened to them I would kill everyone in this room and then myself


	6. Rome Part II: Napoleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day he took his first sip of scotch and knew he was screwed.
> 
> His luck really had turned, hadn’t it?
> 
> He had only ever wanted to be free. If he could just fly away…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably about as graphic as this fic gets--we cover the torture scene. Nothing graphic, but Cowboy isn't exactly doing too hot either, so be warned.

The intel they had could not confirm if Victoria Vinciguerra was Gifted, but Napoleon knew she was the moment they were introduced. He didn’t know how he knew, it had to be gut instinct. She was far more dangerous than he gave her credit for.

When she didn’t seem too surprised at him swiping her jewelry, when she’d caught him out on the Contessa’s bracelet, he knew it had to be some kind of perception. She could see through his tricks. He was very lucky his cover story was close to the truth about him, but he still had to hope it was close enough that she couldn’t see it was a cover. He thought they were done for when she’d shown up at the hotel, but she hadn’t asked him directly about the safe, and he never asked her directly about why she’d come. He charmed her into his bed with the hope of finding more information.

“It’s hard to keep secrets from me.” She finally breathed out, tracing her manicured finger down his chest, tracing some of the scratches she put there. Napoleon would have a slight limp tomorrow if he wasn’t careful. If he had been worried about Peril bruising him before on the ride back from the factory, he had no reason to worry about it now, because Victoria had placed her own bruises there. In polite company, he’d call her passionate. In the comfort of his own mind, she was simply _violent_.

“If that’s the case, you’d expect a woman like that to be more honest herself.” Jack Deveny said through Napoleon’s battered mouth. Victoria laughed.

“Please, my husband lies to my face about the women he sleeps with knowingly. The least I can do is allow myself the same freedom. I think it makes us rather suited for each other, don’t you?”

 _Still a Nazi_. Peril’s words from earlier rang through his head and his stomach flipped. God, the things he did for missions. Peril should thank him for keeping her off their tail. Peril should also have been thanking him for saving his ass back at the facility. Victoria was looking at him. He should stop thinking about Peril. 

The next day he took his first sip of scotch and knew he was screwed.

“I thought I was doing so well.” He sighed, the drug already slowing his thoughts and dulling his reflexes. There was no easy way out of this.

“Oh don’t be so hard on yourself.” Victoria cooed as she turned in her chair. “You were doing fantastically well. The fault doesn’t lie in your performance. However, you couldn’t control the loyalty of young Gaby. She gave you up like an unwanted kitten.”

Napoleon thought about it. It was hard to think about it. 

“Really? She seemed so innocent.” That wasn’t exactly true, her deep dive into espionage made her nervous, scared, but she wasn’t naive. He’d underestimated her anyways. Believed her stubbornness to be that of a plucky mechanic from behind the Wall and not that of a woman determined to get to her father at any cost.

“You’re not the first man to have fallen for the charms of a pretty, young woman.”

Please. If it was either of them that had fallen for Gaby, it was Illya, not Napoleon--not that he wasn’t admittedly fond of Teller, but he certainly wasn’t as far gone as Peril. He remembered how antsy the KGB agent was about sending her into the lion’s den, but it looked like they needn’t have worried at all. He wondered if Illya had been captured too. A simple, soft (and fond, though he’d never say it out loud) part of him hoped he hadn’t, if only because Napoleon wouldn’t be able to save him this time otherwise. He’d find out about it soon enough--once he woke up.

“What _are_ you doing?” Victoria asked.

Well, the game was up. There was no point in lying to her. She’d see right through it.

“I’ve been here before.” He said from his spot lying down on the couch. “And last time, I fell rather badly and hurt my head.”

True, he had been drugged like that before, but he hadn’t woken up strapped to some kind of electric chair before.

His luck really had turned, hadn’t it?

The first wave of shocks had caught him by surprise, since Von Trusch had had to fix a glitch out of sight and Napoleon couldn’t expect it. He grunted, trying to remember how to breathe as Victoria loomed over him like a goddamn vulture.

“Ah! We have contact!”

“Apologies,” Napoleon heard distantly, “won’t happen again.”

Victoria leaned in as if to kiss him (he wouldn’t be surprised if this sort of thing got someone like _her_ off), but instead she inhaled the--the smoke that was already rising off of him. Christ.

“So sorry I can’t stay to finish you off myself.” She whispered to him. He just tried not to look at her as he rode through the aftershocks of pain his body was already struggling to handle. “Rudi’s never in a rush but sadly, I am. And I want it to be slow.”

She dragged her nails down his cheek one last time, making him flinch.

“I’ll send your regards to little Gaby.”

And with that she was gone. And now he was left with Von Trusch. 

He braced himself. This was not his ideal way of leaving this world (is there ever?), but it seemed it was his fate. At the hands of a Nazi psycho, no less. The war was bad enough for Gift manifestations, but the camps? Hell incarnate, no matter what you walked away with, _if_ you walked away. Having walked through some of those places, Napoleon would love nothing more than to destroy the monster before him; instead, he was going to be destroyed by it. There were _very_ few worse ways to go.

But then Von Trusch--he couldn’t think of him as Rudi, Uncle Rudi, because that reminded him of Gaby, who had sold him out, which even though it hurt (why did it hurt? It was everyone for themself out there, why should he be surprised?) it didn’t mean he wanted her anywhere near this--Von Trusch hit the pedal. If there were few worse ways to go, Napoleon quickly lost grasp of what they were. All there was was pain. His muscles snapped to attention and then kept snapping, and he couldn’t writhe with the pain because of the restraints. He tried to keep relaxed, he knew tensing up would make it worse, but then rational thought would be burned out of his brain and it’d take every last effort just to keep from screaming--not that he was sure he even could, his vocal chords seizing like they were. He just kept instructing himself to breathe. It was all he could do. _Keep breathing_. His vision was starting to go. He just wanted the pain to stop. _Keep breathing_. He had only ever wanted to be free. _Keep breathing_. If he could just fly away…

It was a pleasing enough fantasy. Fly, run, get as far away as you can. _Keep breathing_. _Fly, fly_.

Von Trusch lifted his foot off the pedal and Napoleon crashed back into the real world gasping. The only relief to the pause was that it was easier to breathe. He blinked his eyes open but he could barely focus. That damn light above him was so bright, full with too many colors. He could barely see the guard peeking through the doors. Sick bastard. The guard listed, and fell out of view. Huh. _Sick_ bastard. Then--

Illya. 

Napoleon would cry out in relief if he had the energy to--which he didn’t, which was probably for the best. Von Trusch hit the pedal again and Napoleon hated how much he flinched. But the pain didn’t come. The machine had glitched. Thank God. His gaze found Illya again, and he was watching Von Trusch intently. Glaring with cold-blooded murder. He looked back to Napoleon and held a finger to his lips. Yeah, sure, whatever. As if Von Trusch could stand a chance against the behemoth of a Russian. 

“I never, thought, I’d say this,” He managed, blood thick on his tongue, “But I’m actually, quite, pleased to see you.”

Frankly, it was a miracle he could speak at all. Illya’s murderous gaze did not leave Von Trusch, but Napoleon could hear the faintest hint of concern in his voice. How flattering.

“Doing okay, Cowboy?”

“Been better, Peril.” Napoleon wheezed. Illya must have realized how bad a shape he was in to not throw out a quippy insult, because he instantly set about rectifying the situation. Von Trusch was incapacitated and Napoleon free before he could even fully process it.

Napoleon swayed on his feet. For a moment he thought he saw feathers on the chair, but the next thing he knew they were shoving Von Trusch into the thing, so he was willing to dismiss it as a hallucination. Especially because watching (and helping) trap Von Trusch into his own torture device was viscerally satisfying, and he desperately wanted to be mentally present for what they did next.

Of course he had to be mentally present for when Illya pressed the pedal before he’d taken his hands off of the machine. He snapped back and he had to close his eyes to keep from keeling over. _Keep breathing_.

“Do you mind?” He asked coolly. Illya did not apologize, but he caught the alarm in the Russian’s gaze. Any comment that might have come was interrupted by Von Trusch blabbering on and on and _on_ , giving them valuable information, sure, but in the most snivelling, cowardly way and is this what Peril felt, every time his rage was brought to boil? Napoleon’s jaw clicked and that was the only expression of his thoughts he allowed. The machine glitched again. They stepped outside to figure out what to do with the bastard and just their luck, the machine kicked back on and fried Von Trusch to bits.

“Huh. He fixed the glitch.” Illya deadpanned as they watched the electrical fire grow.

“Damn. I left my jacket in there.” Napoleon said. He blinked against the bright fire, the colors so intense they felt like they could burn through his corneas without any need for heat. _Not in black and white, like the others. No. Kodachrome_ , Von Trusch had said, tapping his scrapbook of horrors, _The colors are so real, you can almost taste them_. He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his chest, but he tamped it down. He felt dizzy again, his muscles seizing from their ordeal. He stumbled, but was steadied by a strong hand on his shoulder.

“Cowboy?”

“I’m fine.” Napoleon said, but Illya twisted him around and that was enough to send his world tipping again. Everything was so _vibrant_. Illya fixed that bright blue gaze on him and Napoleon swore he saw purple in it, shades of _purple_. 

“Not fine.” Illya frowned, leaning closer. There were so many differing tones in the Russian’s skin, that he had never seen before. Napoleon shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and when he reopened them the world had settled a bit. Illya’s eyes were blue, and just blue. God, the chair really had done some damage.

“Fine enough.” Napoleon tried to wrench away, but Illya wouldn’t let him go. “Please, I’m stronger than you give me credit for, Peril.”

“You are.” Illya allowed, still not letting go. “Lesser man would be dead already. But you are not fine enough.” He lifted his hand off of Napoleon’s shoulder, expression relaxing to neutral. “And now you are.”

Napoleon’s face pinched with confusion. He stepped back, then froze. He practically hadn’t felt it. He took another step. He felt almost a hundred pounds lighter.

“What did you do to me?” He breathed, looking at his hands. Illya rolled his eyes at his reaction.

“Made it easier for you to move fast.” He said. “We need to go.”

Illya did not explain further. He turned on his heel and took off. Napoleon swayed for a moment, taking in the odd near-floating sensation in his limbs, before taking off after him. Illya had told the truth, it _was_ easier to move fast. Napoleon was practically _bouncing_ along, and he quickly caught up and kept pace with the Russian. Napoleon raced through the halls and through his memory of the files he’d read on Illya. He was Gifted, yes--with the ability to enhance his strength and speed.

“Your Gift works on others?” He asked, curious at the worst of times.

“It works on everything, Cowboy.” Was the simple, yet definitely _not_ simple answer. They paused for a moment, Illya checking the hallway for guards, and Napoleon reeling from the information. _Everything_?

“Then why didn’t you use it? At the factory?” He thought back to the twenty foot jump they’d made to escape, and how Illya probably created this bouncy feeling in himself to limit the impact and left Napoleon to gravity’s sweet cruelty. There was an edge of bitterness to the thought. 

“It can be a challenge, depending on situation. It is draining, regardless.” Illya huffed, clearly not pleased with Napoleon’s prying but still indulging it for some reason. “And I did use it. Made boat lighter, go faster.”

“Not fast enough.” Napoleon pointed out, though now that he thought about it, it explained why the sharp turn had thrown him off balance (and off the boat) so easily.

“Told you. Challenge. And temporary. You have about an hour.” Illya said. “So we should keep moving.”

While they did have to pause and hide a few times as the stress Napoleon’s body had been through threatened to pull him under, they made it out clean to Illya’s delivery truck cover. Napoleon drove as Illya contacted the airport to get them a ride. Illya protested him driving in his current state, but as Peril was the one with better communication (read: intimidation) skills, Napoleon insisted. The drive gave him plenty of time to ponder the fact that even though apparently using it on others was draining, Illya hadn’t hesitated to use his Gift on him. He decided to rationalize it as Illya doing it for the sake of the mission and no other reason, because they had more important issues to attend to. Like the fact that the man Napoleon had lifted an invitation from at the party was a fellow agent, a superior, and now their _handler_ for the rest of the mission. British intelligence, and Gaby working on their behalf. _Christ_.

“I’m terribly sorry, old chap!” Waverly had yelled to Napoleon over the din of the chopper, after being told the fate of Von Trusch. “We had to make sure Miss Teller found her father, and we assumed you would be able to sneak your way out just fine, considering your skill set.”

Napoleon didn’t miss the implication. The lack of a Gifted or un-Gifted label on his file really served to bite him in the ass, didn’t it? His expression contorted into a grimace.

“My skill set isn’t as Gifted as you think it is.” He said. He immediately felt Peril staring at him, understanding the admission for what it was. That was risky information to be honest about in their line of work, but Illya had opened up about his Gift, so Napoleon found he didn’t care about sharing his lack of one.

“Oh!” Waverly sounded surprised. Napoleon had a feeling the Brit got the double-meaning as well, though he hadn’t been expecting it. “Duly noted. We’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He wasn’t expecting to see respect in Illya’s gaze when he finally met it, but it was there. The Russian gave him a small nod, and that was all.

It made him feel a little bit worse, that he’d have to kill him if this all didn’t go the CIA’s way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it's not acknowledged enough in the film that like, Napoleon was straight up electrocuted. That's a lot of stress and trauma right there and that man just powers through it and immediately leads an assault on the Vinciguerra fortress, like, hours later. Wild.


	7. Rome Part II: Gaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her plan had been theoretical when she’d mentioned it to Waverly. Now she was determined to make it reality. She would halt her family’s damage in its tracks. She asked the universe to sing, and she listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late night update! Life got a bit busy, haha. Formatting got wonky as well, so it took a while to fix.

Waverly had tried to convince them to wait, to relax--and most importantly, get medical treatment for what they’d just been through, but each of them had steadfastly refused. Gaby had the feeling that Illya and Napoleon’s modus operandi was that they could rest when they were dead, and she herself simply wanted to see the mission through. But finally they reached a point where they could go no further.

“It will take us roughly an hour to get the Harbor Master out here with the ship registry, and a little under two hours until the bomb’s handoff. There is little we can do otherwise.” Waverly said, and Gaby could have sworn there was a bit of triumph in his voice. “I suggest you put that time towards recovery, agents.”

“There’s a mess hall, correct?” Napoleon asked. Waverly’s face pinched as the aircraft carrier’s captain answered, “Yes, deck five.”

“Brilliant. I could use some coffee.” Solo clapped his hands together and set off.

“Да.” Illya nodded as well, and followed. “Coffee.”

“I don’t need a nanny, Peril…” They fell to their usual bickering, but Gaby didn’t follow to hear the rest of it. She’d probably follow them to the mess hall (she hadn’t eaten since breakfast of the previous day), but for now an idea was forming in her head. If Victoria Vinciguerra’s handoff was far enough away from the aircraft carrier, they’d never catch up in time to intercept. But she remembered her father’s assistant explaining how they repurposed the pair of missiles, how they’d had homing devices. _Double the impact_. 

“Sir?” She got Waverly’s attention.

“Yes, Miss Teller?”

“We still have the second warhead, yes?” She asked. _Is it working,_ she thought nervously. Waverly blinked at her before responding. He was always slow to answer, a man who thoroughly thought before he spoke.

“Yes, but it took some heavy damage when the car flipped down the ravine.” He said. “You’re quite lucky you didn’t set it off. We had a bomb squad defuse it, just in case. Why do you ask?”

Gaby paused for a moment, then opted for honesty.

“I might have an idea, sir.” She said. “But I’m not quite sure it will work. I need to think about it.”

“Well, you have the time to do so.” Waverly allowed. “But do report back to me on it, Ms. Teller.”

“Yes, sir.” With that she turned on her heel and headed out of the room.

“You’ve done excellently well, Ms. Teller.” Waverly called to her, making her turn back. He was smiling. “We’re almost through the fire.”

She smiled back.

“Thank you.”

She stepped out into the hallway. To her surprise, Solo and Illya were only at the end of it, not halfway to the mess hall. Napoleon was slumped against the wall, hand to his chest. Illya looked to be the only thing keeping him upright, hands on his arms. Gaby hurried down the hallway towards them.

“...looks like you do need nanny.” She heard Illya say.

“I’m fine.” Napoleon spat, sounding out of breath and not at all fine. “It’ll pass, Peril.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a good liar, Cowboy.” Illya huffed.

Napoleon was about to bite out some kind of cheeky response, Gaby was sure, but then he caught sight of her.

“Hell.” He breathed. Then Illya saw her too.

“What happened?” She asked. Napoleon closed his eyes and sighed; it sounded more like a gasp.

“Nothing.” He said, at the same time Illya said simply, “Torture.”

“Torture?” Gaby echoed, whirling on Napoleon. Solo glared at Illya for a moment before fixing a kinder gaze on her.

“It’s nothing.” He reassured her, at the same time Illya said, “Electric chair.”

“ _What_?”

Napoleon levelled another glare at the Russian. “Do you _mind_?”

“It’s my fault.” Gaby murmured, feeling her heart skip. She was the one who sold them out. She had assumed that Illya was in the woods and would be able to get out quickly. She knew Napoleon had had a meeting with Victoria Vincigeurra, a much trickier situation to extricate himself from should his cover be blown. Now it was clear he hadn’t been able to. “That’s who Uncle Rudi called on the phone.”

“Ah, so that’s who Victoria was talking to when I arrived.” Napoleon said neutrally. “Makes sense.”

“I’m so sorry--” Gaby rushed to say, but the other two agents quickly cut her off.

“Нет.”

“No.” Napoleon reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, breaking part of Illya’s hold to do so. A mistake, because Gaby could feel his tremors through her shirt and wanted to hurl. 

“We are not mad at you.” Illya said first. 

“Victoria Vinciguerra was Gifted. She could see through lies.” Napoleon added.

“I knew that--that’s why Waverly had snuck into the party,” Gaby gasped, “to warn me. I should have told you.”

“Your orders were to keep us in the dark. Orders are orders.” Illya shrugged.

“But--”

“Gaby,” Napoleon said softly, grabbing her attention. He had never sounded so gentle before, “Victoria drugged every single drink in her office long before I stepped inside, poured myself one, and drank it. We were up shit creek without a paddle long before you gave us away. You can’t blame yourself for something like this. Especially if you want to survive in this line of work.”

Gaby bit her lip, but in the end she nodded.

“I’m still sorry, Napoleon.” She said. Napoleon nodded.

“Only my mother calls me Napoleon.” He winked, but his usual mask of cool collected charm wasn’t in place when he added, “Apology accepted, Gaby.” 

“I thought the mess hall was deck five, not hallway seven-B.” Waverly’s voice called down to them, making them all jump. He had entered the hallway now too, but unlike Gaby, did not look surprised to see them there. He looked rather irritated, actually.

“We were having chat.” Illya said stiffly. Waverly raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. It was hard to miss how pale and clammy Napoleon looked, not to mention the fact that he was still practically holding onto Illya and now Gaby for support.

“Well, whatever this chat is, I think it can be continued in medical.”

“I’m fine--”

“I do not need--”

“All _three_ of you.” Waverly said, and his tone brokered no argument. “That is an order. I see no point in you continuing to damage yourselves in the name of bull-headed arrogance when we have a perfectly good Healer on board and the time for her to do her job.”

Napoleon and Illya kept rebelliously silent.

“Alright.” Gaby said first, trying to herd her boys in the direction she hoped the medical bay was in. Both Napoleon and Illya were resisting her though, and eventually she gave up and turned to face Waverly instead.

“Can you escort us there, sir?” She asked sweetly. “We don’t know where it is.”

“Of course.” He said, “follow me.”

She ignored the looks of betrayal Illya and Napoleon gave her (they seemed more upset than when she _actually_ betrayed them), and they all obediently followed Waverly to the carrier’s medical bay. If Napoleon leaned on Illya for most of the way, no one mentioned it.

It was a sparse space with several rows of cots meant for many wounded, with supplies lining the walls. There were a few men who she had to guess were the usual doctors of the ship, but instead a woman in civilian clothes approached them. She had dark wavy hair and tan skin like Gaby, but she was older, she had a straight nose, and her eyes were a bright, unusual shade of yellow. 

“Hello,” She greeted in a low, accented voice, an accent Gaby couldn’t place, “I am Carmen Flores, I’m working with Waverly for this mission. Pleasure to meet you. Why don’t you all have a seat?”

They each sat on adjacent beds.

“I didn’t know doctors came this lovely.” Napoleon said, laying on his usual charm. Gaby and Illya both rolled their eyes. Carmen laughed, flattered but not flustered.

“I am no doctor,” She corrected as she pulled over a medical supply kit, “Merely a nurse.”

“Well, hello nurse.” Napoleon smirked, prompting another eye roll from his colleagues; Gaby couldn’t resist an exasperated groan. He let Carmen position him so she could begin a basic checkup.

“Are you flirting with me because you are the least injured, or because you are the most injured?” Carmen asked plainly, wiping the smug look off of Napoleon’s face in an instant. Gaby had to stifle a laugh. She liked this woman!

“Most injured.” She said, almost in unison with Illya and even Waverly. Napoleon sighed in defeat--he was outnumbered here.

“These three have been the point people for this mission.” Waverly explained. “Ms. Teller and Mr. Kuryakin were in separate, but related vehicle accidents,” He gestured to each of them in turn, “but Mr. Solo here has had the added bonus of electrocution at the hands of our good Fifth Doctor of the Apocalypse, Rudolph Von Trusch.”

Gaby froze.

“Ah, that bastard.” Carmen clucked, not catching on until too late. “I always hate to see his...ah...”

Rudi.

She watched as Illya turned a murderous gaze on to Waverly, fingers tapping away as Napoleon let his face fall into his palms. They clearly weren’t intending to tell her. Waverly too, had blanched slightly; for once, he hadn’t thought before he spoke. All the while she felt hollowed out, like an empty car shell with no engine, putting together the dots. Rudi working for the Vinciguerras was bad enough, she knew he was no saint and it wasn’t like they were particularly close, but he had been family. And he had stuck Napoleon--if Illya was to be believed--in an electric chair. You did not build an electric chair just to torture one man. You did not earn a title like _Fifth Doctor of the Apocalypse_ torturing just one man. It was scarily easy to put it all together. She had heard the stories. She’d just never made the connection. 

“Ah, that, uh, was supposed to be saved--saved for the debrief--” Waverly fumbled.

“How, exactly, did you become a high ranking official in British Intelligence?” Napoleon asked scathingly. Illya was still glaring murder. It was sweet, how they thought they could protect her from this. 

Did the universe sing to Rudi, too? Did it show him how to make terrible machines, did it tell him to put _people_ in them? Her father, too, had made machines--weapons, for first the enemy and then the friend, but weapons nonetheless. Could the universe sing to her like that? Show her how to build things meant for nothing but destruction?

“Just because I’m not Sanders doesn’t mean I won’t be reporting to him after all this, Solo.” Waverly said hotly. Gaby couldn’t see Napoleon’s face but she could see the way his shoulders tensed at the threat. Waverly turned to her, indignation abandoned for an attempt at placation.

“Ms. Teller, you have to understand--”

Nausea rolled through her in waves and waves. She rose to her feet, and Waverly stopped whatever he was going to say. There was nothing he could say, not really.

“Is there a bathroom?” She asked Carmen, voice hollow. 

“Right over there.” The nurse pointed. Gaby nodded her thanks.

“I’ll be just a moment.” She said, taking long strides towards it. Illya reached out for her as she passed, but she dodged his touch. It wasn’t what she needed at that moment, even if the hurt look she knew would be on his face haunted her all the way to the bathroom. His hurt and Napoleon’s hurt and her hurt and everybody else's hurt that had come at the hands of her family.

She slammed the door behind her and fell to her knees, retching loudly into the toilet.

She heard, distantly, Carmen snarling at Waverly in another language--Spanish, she guessed--in between her heaves. 

“ _Tu pastoso trozo de galleta rancia._ ”

She couldn’t understand a lick of it, but whatever it was was enough to make Napoleon snort, loud and undignified. The nurse had come to her defense too, it seemed. Defense from the family she’d been born into, as if there would be any shielding her from that. Udo Teller left her when she was a child and she grew up under foster parents, and he still had come back to haunt her. He wasn’t like Rudi; he had built what he had built out of fear, under threat. But it had still wreaked havoc in its wake.

She hadn’t eaten in over twenty four hours, so there wasn’t much to upend. Still, her body convulsed until it ran out of energy, and then she slumped onto the ground. She wanted to scream and rage against the blood that ran in her veins, but what good was that? She wanted to yell at herself for not connecting the dots sooner, but there was no use to that either. She pushed herself to her feet. There was a mirror in the small space. She looked haggard, what makeup hadn’t washed off was terribly smudged and her hair was in disarray, as tied back as it was. If it weren’t for the abrasions on her face and arms, she could believe it was just another difficult day at the shop. 

She had spent her entire life hearing the universe sing, and translating that song into mechanical beauty. She was not Udo. She was not Rudi. She was Gaby. She would not be like either of them. Ever.

She washed her mouth and her face. She straightened the fatigues that had been given to her, that had been far too big. She stepped out of the bathroom. Illya was waiting just outside, hovering anxiously. He looked like he wanted to apologize to her, but an apology for the facts of her life were not what she wanted to hear. Before either could say anything Carmen walked up to her and forced a cup of water into her hands. 

“I told you to stay seated, Mr. Kuryakin.” She huffed at him, before laying a gentle hand on Gaby, “You need to hydrate, and you need to sit.”

There was no arguing with her tone. Gaby let herself be guided back to her bed, feeling the men in the room staring at her. Were they waiting for her to yell? Was it her turn in their little party to feel betrayed? They hadn’t learned to not underestimate her yet.

“Is he dead?” She asked simply. Napoleon glanced at Illya before nodding.

“Yes.” He said.

“Killed by his own machine.” Illya agreed. After a half-curious, half-suspicious look from Gaby he added, “It had glitch.”

Something Gaby had learned very quickly was that Illya wasn’t very good at lying to her. And she could see he wasn’t lying now. 

“Good.” Was all she said, and turned her attention to drinking her water and thinking.

So Rudi’s machine had been imperfect. It had malfunctioned. Gaby hid her mean smile in her cup. Nothing that came under her hands would ever malfunction. Like the missile. Her plan had been theoretical when she’d mentioned it to Waverly. Now she was determined to make it reality. She would halt her family’s damage in its tracks. She would lay her hands on what they’d done just to take it out of the world forever. She asked the universe to sing, and she listened.

She stayed quiet as Carmen flitted about them. Gaby had never met anyone with a healing Gift, but based on the reactions of the other agents (Napoleon in particular), and Waverly’s obvious high regard, she was powerful. Not strong enough, they learned, to heal all three of them perfectly in the time they had. She used most of her Gift on Napoleon since he’d taken the most damage. At one point the nurse seemed to pause, staring intently at Napoleon’s eyes. 

“Careful there, you’ll get lost in them.” Napoleon eventually said, raising an eyebrow at her. She frowned and shook her head.

“They’re a lovely shade of blue, and the partial heterochromia is fascinating, but no.” She answered honestly. “They...I thought they looked off for a moment. Likely a trick of the light.”

“Can eyesight be affected by electrocution?” Solo asked.

“The appearance of your eyes? Not really, unless the blood vessels have burst, in that case there’d be blood in your eyes, which there thankfully isn’t. But your vision? Yes, easily.” Carmen explained. “Nothing I won’t be able to fix though.”

Solo seemed relieved with that information. Once he was taken care of, only the most topical of his injuries left behind, Carmen moved on to the rest of them. She healed Gaby and Illya’s concussions, and Illya’s broken ribs (Gaby had shot a worried look at the Russian, because he was hardly showing any pain for an injury that severe, but he hadn’t met her eyes). The woman’s Gift felt like stepping out of the rain into warm sunlight, the pain melting away in the heat. Gaby couldn’t resist leaning into the touch. She sighed with relief. The women smiled at each other, Gaby grateful and Carmen reassuring, before Carmen moved on. The rest of their wounds Carmen cleaned and treated as usual. 

Overall, Gaby just tried to concentrate on the missile as much as she could, something she had a better time with once her head was healed and clear. Like back in the cell, it was something she’d never done before. She had never dismantled something from a distance, something only mechanical and not electrical, with only one touch, and had pushed the limit of her Gift to do so. Now she was pushing the limits again, to repair something she had never worked with and wasn’t even looking at at first. The song was distant, rooms and decks away, and so much harder to understand. But again, if she could resolve to do it then, she could resolve to do it now. 

“Querida, are you alright?” Carmen’s voice finally broke her out of her thoughts. She blinked, glancing around the room. She had long since drained her cup, feeling much calmer, especially after Carmen’s work. Illya and Napoleon were still there, but Waverly had made an exit at some point. She hadn’t even noticed. 

“Yes.” She said, aware of how distant her voice sounded, but she wanted to stay tuned in to the melody of the universe as well. “Thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, I’ve done all I can for the three of you.” Carmen announced, clapping her hands together. Gaby took a closer look at the woman, realizing how much paler she was. Her Gift did not come without a price. But she didn’t let it affect her demeanor at all. She filled cups of water and passed them out, taking Gaby’s empty one and replacing it. “My next recommendations are for all three of you to eat and rest, but I’ve been working with stubborn special agents like you for years. I’ll settle for you staying hydrated, at the least.”

“Thank you, Ms. Flores.” Illya said, looking truly grateful as he stood. She beamed up at him--she didn’t have far to look though, and Gaby felt a smart of jealousy at the woman’s height. Napoleon also looked a little jealous, probably because Carmen seemed much more fond of Illya than of him. Again, Gaby hid her smile in her cup. 

“‘Merely a nurse’ is an understatement, Señorita Flores.” Solo chimed in, also standing. There was a healthy color to his cheeks now, and he didn’t need support to stand on his own. For what it was worth, he also sounded genuine. “I don’t know where I’d be without you and those magic hands of yours.”

Neither Illya nor Gaby bothered to hide their exasperation at his antics, but Carmen only chuckled.

“If I corrected you and said it was _Señora_ Flores, would you stop flirting with me?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Napoleon shrugged.

“Only if you asked me to.” He said. He said it almost like a question, like he was giving her the opportunity to tell him to back off. Carmen only hummed thoughtfully, before grinning.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, Señor Solo.” She said as she saw them out.

When they left the medical bay, the universe felt a little less like a song to Gaby and more like a livewire, thrumming under her skin. She saw Illya and Solo seem to debate for a moment, hesitating between the mess hall and elsewhere, but when they saw her march off they quickly fell in step behind. She smiled to herself; she liked that.

“Gaby…” Illya said quietly. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was still worried about her; like a mother hen, her Russian was! She didn’t stop walking but she did throw him a small smile over her shoulder.

“I’m not mad at either of you.” She said. “I’m mad at myself for not figuring it out sooner.”

“It’s not like you had a wealth of information at your fingertips behind the Iron Curtain.” Napoleon pointed out, tone sympathetic.

“Waverly knew.” Illya countered. “Should have shared.”

“That’s rich. Isn’t the KGB the King of Need to Know?” Napoleon said. 

“Stop it.” Gaby warned, before they could devolve into their usual bickering. “Waverly didn’t share because he rightly knew it would affect me. I highly doubt I would have been able to act convincingly if I knew what I do now. So let’s just leave it, yeah? The Harbor Master should be here by now. We’ve got a job to finish.” 

They let the subject drop.

There was a hustle and bustle about the command deck when they entered, and a palpable tension. They had precious little time before the handoff occurred. The Harbor Master provided them with the ship manifests. Of course, no one knew which ship was actually Victoria’s--until Napoleon stepped forward. It was fascinating to watch the man’s eyes scan back and forth, vision distant and clearly focusing on his memories, matching them to the names on the list. 

“Diadema.” He announced. “I’m sure of it.”

Gaby’s heart began to stutter. Now was the time.

“Now you can get a bearing from the radio signal, yes?” Waverly asked.

“If we keep them broadcasting for long enough.” The captain answered with a nod.

Now or never.

“I have an idea which might make things quicker.” She said, and suddenly felt all eyes turn to her.

“Ah yes, as you mentioned earlier.” Waverly nodded. “Well?”

“We have the non-nuclear warhead. It’s been defused, but it has a coupling device, one of my father’s assistants told me. It can lock onto the other warhead. If we launch it, we can destroy Victoria. Maybe even the people she’s dealing with.”

“But if the bomb is defused, it will be useless.” Illya said, frowning. “Shifting the coupling device to another missile will take too long, if it’s possible at all.”

“That’s...where I come in.” Gaby said. She hated how they all stared at her, waiting for her to speak. It was a pressure she was unused to; the difference between here and dancing onstage was that the stage lights blocked out the audience and all their eyes boring into you. Fifteen plus years of her foster father (who was more her father than Udo ever had been) trying to shelter her and blanketing her with his paranoia of the world, threatened to hold her throat closed. She hesitated. She swallowed. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t been perfectly honest with anyone, here.” She began. The three men she knew best perked up. 

“How so?” Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

“I...I can repair things. I’ve always been good with it, fixing things. Gifted, you could say.” She forced out haltingly.

And now they were staring at her like she’d grown an extra head.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Napoleon asked, bewildered.

“Any car that comes into my shop I’ve always been able to fix, no matter the issue. It just...comes together under my hands.” Gaby explained. Recognition lit in Solo’s eyes: he remembered the car in East Berlin. “But I’ve been branching out. I think I can do it.”

“Repair the missile?” Waverly clarified, eyes wide with shock.

“Yes.”

“...Then we get a bearing from the Diadema, launch the missile, it locks on to the second warhead, and...that’s it.” Napoleon followed Gaby’s thought process. “Not even a nuclear explosion to worry about, since there won’t be any fission in the blast.”

“We’d just need to keep them on the line long enough.” Waverly said. “Think you could manage that, Solo?”

“I’m sure I can think of something to get her talking.” Napoleon nodded. Waverly turned to Gaby. He seemed to be taking the news of her Gift well in stride. 

“And how quickly will it take you to repair the missile?”

“I won’t know until I get my hands on it.” Gaby said. “But I’ve been turning it over in my head for a while--so I’m hoping no more than a few minutes.”

It took the reaction of the people around her to realize how impressive that statement was. Defusing must have taken a lot of time and effort from the dedicated bomb squad--and she could fix it in minutes, having never touched a missile before? Her idea suddenly sounded implausible even to her.

“Well that’s a hell of a shot if I’ve ever heard one.” Waverly said. He turned to the captain. “Prepare the missile for launch, allow Ms. Teller to work on it. We’ll start in ten. There’s no time to waste.”

“Right away sir.” The captain nodded, and he set to ordering about other crew members. A sailor stepped up to her to escort her to the deck where the missile was being kept. She moved to follow, then paused and turned. Illya had been staring at her this whole time, but was stiffly keeping his distance. She couldn’t read his expression. Was he mad at her? For lying to him again? This wasn’t a lie, it was an omission of truth. He couldn’t be angry, she decided. Or, at the very least, he could be angry later.

“Illya,” She said, “I don’t know how cooperative those scientists are going to be, and I’m going to need their help. Think you could help persuade them?”

She patted his arm. He didn’t recoil.

“Да.” He nodded. He followed close behind her as they rushed to the lower decks. They were still pulling out the missile when they got there, and Gaby instinctively leaned back into the Russian as they waited. Anxiety was making her heart beat a rapid tattoo. If she couldn’t do this, they were screwed. Why had Waverly put such faith in her? Suddenly she felt a large hand on her shoulder. She looked up. He was looking down at her with reassurance in his gaze.

“What you did was brave.” He said. “To share what you did not want to.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you.” She said. He shook his head.

“Gifts can be manipulated. Make you target. I understand hiding. Especially in this world. It is not like I’ve shared mine, Да? Maybe I will now after all of this, so we are even.” He said calmly. He smiled, one that made her heart flutter with a different type of anxiety. Was he closer to her now? “You keep finding new ways to surprise me, little chop shop girl.”

They were definitely too close. 

“I didn’t even know you were Gifted. You keep finding ways to surprise _me_.” She breathed. He was pleasantly warm beside her. Her eyes slipped shut. She leaned up--

“We’re ready for you, ma’am.”

Gaby practically jumped away as though she’d been shocked. _Fool girl_ , she thought to herself. _Focus_. 

Illya kept close behind her though, as she moved to the missile. A part of its casing had been removed, allowing her to see its inner workings, the parts that had been dented by the car accident and the wires that had been cut by the bomb squad. Gaby breathed deeply. 

“ _Moment der wahrheit._ ” She muttered to herself, feeling the song she’d been listening to all this time spark and sputter under her skin, though now it was nothing more than a whisper. She had broken concentration for too long. She felt herself begin to panic.

She felt a warm hand at her lower back, gentle and reassuring.

“ _Du kannst das._ ” Illya murmured. 

She swallowed and nodded. She closed her eyes and listened.

 _Help me_. She called.

The universe answered.

The song turned from a whisper to a roar. Sparks leapt from her fingertips, all of her listening from before making her know where to send them in an instant. Metal whined under her touch, bending back into shape. The wires were more difficult; she sent out the spark and felt the spark back, echoing along the copper. She hissed and redoubled her efforts, elbows deep in the machinery. She held her father’s work in her hands. When they launched it, it--and his mark on the world--would be gone forever.

The song petered out the closer she got to succeeding. Like the closing movement of a symphony, and she began to sway as she listened.

“Gaby?” Illya’s voice, melding in and out in harmony, low and pleasant. He hadn’t stopped touching her this entire time, and it had kept her grounded.

“I’ve got it.” She whispered. The song ended. She let go. She stepped back. Illya braced her, keeping her from collapsing, which she found she suddenly wanted to do. She had never pushed herself so hard for so long, doing things she’d never thought possible with her Gift. 

“I’ve got you.” Illya said, in a voice so soft and awestruck it sent her mind reeling. “Ты великолепен.” That she couldn’t understand, but the reverence in his tone made her blush anyways. 

They called over the scientists, who were cooperative enough without Illya’s looming presence, just more nervous under his savage gaze. Mostly he held up Gaby’s weight, keeping her from falling right over from exhaustion. If Illya realized she’d asked him along more for her own sake than anything else, he did not point it out. They watched as the scientists re-armed the bomb.

“The coupling device is now activated, and the bomb is armed.” Her father’s assistant announced. They didn’t stay to watch the warhead be loaded. They rushed back to the command deck. Gaby found that as they ran her steps felt lighter, almost as if she was floating. She supposed her exhaustion was messing with her perception. She just had to see this through, and then she could rest.

“It’s all yours, Captain, thank you.” They heard as they entered.

Gaby barely managed a nod to Waverly when he looked at her. The captain removed his key for the launch. 

“And you will die, Solo,” Victoria’s voice crackled through the comms for everyone to hear, “knowing you have failed completely.” Napoleon looked around, ice blue eyes finding the two of them. Illya nodded to him, Gaby still listing somewhat from the strain. “We have the professor’s disk. We can build as many bombs as we need.”

“Ready?” The captain asked.

“Yes, proceed please, Captain.” Waverly said eagerly.

They all watched the bomb launch. It did not fall apart. It did not malfunction. Gaby slumped against Illya with relief.

“That’s my little chop shop girl.” Illya whispered, as Napoleon returned triumphantly to his radio, to keep Victoria talking until her last moments.

“I see one flaw in that plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Нет = No
> 
> Tu pastoso trozo de galleta rancia. = You pasty lump of stale biscuit.
> 
> Moment der wahrheit. = Moment of truth.
> 
> Du kannst das. = You can do this.
> 
> Ты великолепен. = You are wonderful.
> 
> Gaby has a lot to reckon with in this chapter, but she also gets her big chance to shine!! Have I made it clear I love Gaby Teller? I love Gaby Teller. 
> 
> 7 chapters down, one to go! Just an epilogue left.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew he had chosen well.

Alexander opened the door to Gaby before she could knock--he knew she’d been hesitating outside for at least a minute.

“Ah, Ms. Teller, right on schedule.” He said, letting her in. She took in his room, which, now that the Vinciguerras were taken care of, looked (paradoxically) a little bit like a warzone. He’d been going over the debrief paperwork and mission files while also trying to pack, and he had to admit, he wasn’t the best multi-tasker. He’d also just gotten off the phone with Adrian Sanders, and dealing with the American’s stubborn ego had been a headache that had allowed him to do little else besides battle it. He could see why Solo chafed under the man’s control. If he had to choose, he’d take his Russian counterpart Oleg over the phone any day, because though the man’s ego was rival to Sanders’, at least he was more polite about it. Though Kuryakin hardly fared much better.

“You’ve been busy.” Gaby commented.

“Yes, well, mission wrap-up is usually quite a mess of paperwork and bureaucracy.” He said, rifling through a stack of papers on the coffee table. “I’ve also been working to get certain things legitimized for our flight.”

“Flight?” 

“All in due time.” He answered her. He found what he was looking for and passed it along. “First, I believe congratulations are in order.”

She took the envelope, rather suspiciously considering how long they’d known each other. Then again, she might still be upset with him for not telling her about her uncle. The poor girl’s reaction was still fresh in his mind. He was still upset with himself, to be honest, for the way he’d gone about it. He had been stewing in everybody else’s stress and fear and anxiety and in his agents’ cases, pain, for several hours. He was exhausted, spread thin having called in as many favors as he had, and feeling more than a little guilty for letting Solo fall into Von Trusch’s clutches. He and his people had been trying to get their hands on him for _years;_ the only reason Waverly risked Solo’s life was because...he thought he wasn’t risking it. Their intel had been vague on the matter but the evidence had pointed to a Gift. Waverly had thought he’d seen it, sensed it almost, at the party. But he’d been wrong, and Solo nearly paid the price for it. All because the CIA liked to be cagey! It gave him some strong opinions on policy in the future with--

The sound of tearing paper tore him out of his reverie. He shook his head to clear his mind and watched as Gaby unceremoniously opened the envelope and pulled the papers out. Her eyes widened, and Alexander put aside his brooding in favor of cheer.

“This is…” Gaby murmured, flipping through the papers. “This is…”

“Your documents, legitimizing your citizenship within the United Kingdom.” Waverly smiled. “Wherever you have to go, you won’t have to go back to East Berlin.” 

She glanced up at him, looking a tad confused and still suspicious.

“Don’t I have to go wherever you tell me to go?” She asked.

“Oh goodness no. Not anymore.” Alexander shook his head. Now that he’d given Gaby the papers she needed, he set about properly packing. “My dear Miss Teller, your deal with British Intelligence was only to work for us for as long as it took to locate and recover your father. He has been located, and, well, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. My condolences, by the way.”

Gaby nodded absently. She was more struck by her freedom than by her grief. That didn’t surprise him. 

“Even…” She said hesitantly, “even with my Gift?”

Ah, that. Alexander had been shocked when she’d come forward about it, on the aircraft carrier, of course he had been. Then he’d remembered that she’d been hiding something since they’d first met (and he’d been too focused on earning her trust to pry), and that it would make sense that it would be a Gift as handy and from what he could tell, as powerful, as that. If anything, he was proud that she’d been able to hide it from _him_ , of all people. 

“As far as top brass is concerned, we were lucky to have a very skilled and adaptable mechanic on board to help us.” Her head shot up at that, surprised. “Honesty is preferred, no doubt, Miss Teller, but privacy is respected. A deal is a deal.”

“Now, there will be a bit of red tape to fight through, a few phone calls to make, but you are being compensated for your efforts--the documentation for that is also in there.” Alexander added, smiling to himself at what he was about to say: “You can settle down in Britain, if you’d like. Leave all this behind, build a new life. Start a, I don’t know, a little chop shop.”

She stared him down knowingly. 

“There’s an “or”, to that.” She said, eyes sparkling. He had a feeling he’d win her over quickly, if not because that option sounded (frankly) terrible, then because her loneliness was etched clearly into her features. If she walked away now, she’d be completely on her own. Nothing she couldn’t handle, he was sure, but it would be a rough start for anybody after a life like hers.

“Well…” He shrugged as he tucked his clothes into his suitcase. “ _Or_ , you could stay with me. There’s other messes in the world that need a more covert handling. You’ve already had a bit of training, which you picked up impressively fast. Your skillset--Gifted and otherwise,” He allowed, “would be a valuable asset to us.”

“With British Intelligence.” She nodded. Alexander had to tamp down another smile.

“No. You see, I’ve been working to establish a sort of... _separate_ organization. I was having a bit of trouble gaining support until this mission got so tangled.” He explained. “Now everyone’s seen the advantage in having a more, _international_ team, to deal with international problems. A team like that--diverse, allowing multiple nations to have a finger in the pot, thereby avoiding ruffled feathers--that would have a bit more leniency and flexibility, than say, _just_ the CIA or _just_ the KGB. It’s quite fledgling, mind you, we’re still working on structuring and recruitment--” Alexander hefted his suitcase off the bed and into the living area of the room. Setting it down, he straightened up and adjusted his suit. “--but you would be paid. And you would receive training and support, both for your Gift and otherwise.”

“It would be dangerous.” Gaby said. 

“This line of work always is, but, usually, for a good cause.” Alexander nodded. He added, “You’d be officially assigned a team, of course. Hopefully you’ll be a little more well-balanced this time around.”

She smiled, but she seemed bittersweet about the proposal. She wouldn’t be connected to Kuryakin and Solo anymore--or so she thought. Alexander thought about telling her, for a moment, but then he decided to let her figure it out for herself. He was a prankster at the worst of times. He called for the bellhop while Gaby shifted through her documents, thinking about the choice that lay before her.

“Well,” Gaby sighed, “I could go start a little chop shop. But honestly? That sounds boring as hell.”

They grinned at each other.

“When do we start?”

“Oh, right away.” He told her, scooping up papers and sorting them quickly into his briefcase. It wasn’t perfect, but he could reorganize on the plane. “Something has come up in Istanbul. We’re still establishing a headquarters but of course, that doesn’t mean unpleasant people will stop doing unpleasant things to wait. Here are your plane tickets,” He handed her a small envelope. “We’ll pick up your team on the way.”

“Oh. Alright.” Gaby said, a little surprised at the sudden hurry they were now in.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time to brief on the flight.” He assured her. The bellhop knocked and came in, picking up Waverly’s things. He made sure the man had a good hold on everything before turning to Gaby, as if struck by a sudden thought (that wasn’t sudden at all).

“Oh, speaking of briefing--do you have any idea where Solo and Kuryakin might be?” He asked.

“Ah, in Solo’s room, I think. He invited Illya and I up for drinks, to celebrate. I, well, I had to meet with you.” She said, suddenly fiddling with her sunglasses. Waverly knew from experience she hated proper goodbyes, and had probably used their meeting as an excuse to bow out, though she clearly regretted it. She was so attached to them, so quickly. Alexander didn’t want to read any deeper into that right away, so he let it be, but made a note to himself to keep an eye on the three of them in the future.

“Well, why don’t we go pay them a visit. See what they’re up to, yes?”

It was only on the elevator up to Solo’s floor that Gaby finally spoke up:

“You knew I was going to stay.” She said, indicating her plane tickets. The accusation in her tone wasn’t tinged with upset or mistrust, merely curiosity.

“Call it a gamble, having grown familiar with your...brand of determination.” He said with a smile. She hummed quietly, and that seemed to settle the matter.

The door to Solo’s room was unlocked, but neither American nor Russian were in the rooms. Alexander sensed them on the balcony and beckoned for Gaby to follow him. Kuryakin and Solo were drinking what appeared to be whiskey as they took in the Roman skyline together. How touching. 

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He announced their presence, walking up to them. On the balcony table laid a small fire; and Alexander was quick to realize that it was a copy of Teller’s nuclear blueprints. He smiled. He knew he had chosen well. “Rather touching scene. Nice view, glass of whiskey...and a little bonfire to keep you warm.”

He felt the agents’ gazes boring into him, suspicious as spies always were, and nervous about being caught by a superior (not in their bearing, but Waverly could hear it quickly on the surface of their thoughts). His smile didn’t fade. “Rather good idea.”

With all of their attention on him, he began to explain.

“So I have news. A fresh little unpleasantness has arisen.” He said. “I’ve spoken to your superiors, and now that we’re all good friends, they’ve kindly agreed to let me keep the team together for a while. We leave in an hour.”

The wave of surprise that swept through the others made Alexander have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Where we going?” Kuryakin frowned. 

“Istanbul, Kuryakin.” And then, because he couldn’t resist: “You’ll need your curly-wurly shoes.”

He decided that that was enough out of him; he could continue the debrief on the plane, before leaving them in Turkey and moving on to New York to scout a rather promising location behind a tailor’s shop.

“Oh, and you have a new code name.” He called over his shoulder before he forgot. 

“Code name?” Solo echoed.

“Yes, rather a good one: U.N.C.L.E.” 

He continued on his way out, but Alexander couldn’t resist a quick read, for his own satisfaction. 

Gaby’s thoughts were unguarded, because she had never thought or known to guard them that way.

 _That’s what he meant. Oh my God. That’s what he meant? These two_ again _?_ _What the hell have I signed up for? What is he thinking?_

Napoleon’s were a bit more difficult, CIA training and all, so Alexander had to focus in a bit more to hear them clearly. 

_Uncle? The hell kind of name is that? Peril? I have to stick with him? No. No. That can’t be right. Am I drunk? Goddamn this is what I get, isn’t it? Never a break from the madness._

Illya’s mind, damn the paranoia of the KGB, was practically guarded under lock and key. Alexander was only able to skim the man’s thoughts. In the end, he got just one clear line, steeped in irritation and bewilderment:

 _This is just my fucking luck_.

Alexander did have to laugh at that, knowing he was out of earshot to do so. If he had the ability to reply, he’d say “ _your_ _good luck_ , _Kuryakin_.”

Good luck, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck, indeed!
> 
> Thank you all for coming along on this weird, movie-tangential ride with me! Your comments have cheered me up the past few days with all the global craziness going on. Your kudos and your comments keep me going. This little(?) fic is over, but rest assured there's another on the way! I would tentatively say that that will start going up next week, but life is weird and we shall see. 
> 
> Stay safe out there <3


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